In the Fields Grows the Rye
In the fields grows the rye, rye that is green, is green—
“Tell me, my lover, how livest thou, when never my face is seen?”
“Out in the fields, down-beaten, rye lies upon its face—
So do I live without thee, the good Lord giving His grace.”
On the crest of the hill is the rye, cut high on its blooming stem:
Down below is a well where the horses drink water drawn for them.
“With thy breath the water is blown; pray why dost thou not drink?”
“Of what, O young black-browed girl, of what now dost thou think?”
“I think and I think all day: I wonder if I shall wed—
Nay, surely this may not be!” the black-browed maiden said.
“For who would marry me? No oxen nor kine have I,
Black brows—blue eyes—such wealth what lover would satisfy?”
“Fret not thyself, Sweetheart, some one will come to woo,
Caring naught for gold or kine—caring all for eyes of blue!”
“Tell me, my lover, how livest thou, when never my face is seen?”
“Out in the fields, down-beaten, rye lies upon its face—
So do I live without thee, the good Lord giving His grace.”
On the crest of the hill is the rye, cut high on its blooming stem:
Down below is a well where the horses drink water drawn for them.
“With thy breath the water is blown; pray why dost thou not drink?”
“Of what, O young black-browed girl, of what now dost thou think?”
“I think and I think all day: I wonder if I shall wed—
Nay, surely this may not be!” the black-browed maiden said.
“For who would marry me? No oxen nor kine have I,
Black brows—blue eyes—such wealth what lover would satisfy?”
“Fret not thyself, Sweetheart, some one will come to woo,
Caring naught for gold or kine—caring all for eyes of blue!”
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